


words are futile devices

by mikeandwill



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, dumb boys who can't admit their feelings, i'm not even projecting onto theo anymore he's literally me, so my mind produced this mess, they kissed before the leaving scene it's canon, yeah... sorry lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikeandwill/pseuds/mikeandwill
Summary: He’s sure this is the most honest he’s ever been, but inevitably, this will all be forgotten in the morning. Whatever happens will be pushed to the back of their minds with as much strength as possible, and they’ll move on like it was all some sort of dream. They’ll wake up side by side and start joking with each other like things are normal, they’ll start drinking, smoking, wasting away… and they won’t talk about it; because the curtain in the corner will never come down and the ghost will always remain. In truth, and both of them know this truth, they’re only ever honest with their feelings in the night — and sometimes they beg the earth to stop turning so the sun will never rise.





	words are futile devices

****_ It's been a long, long time since I've memorised your face. _

_ It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place. _

_ And when I sleep on your couch I feel very safe. _

_ And when you bring the blankets, I cover up my face. _

 

 

His eyes open before he wants to wake up. 

 

He peers at the fan that turns in the corner of the room, the sound doing its best to drown out any of the thoughts encased between the four walls that seem to extend for eternity. The window, open just a touch, lets in a reassuring breeze to remind the young boy that he’s still existing somewhere on a fucked up planet full of bad people who do unforgivable things. The thin drape of a curtain softly catches the air and the moonlight, appearing to be some sort of apparition in the middle of the dark hours; watching, waiting for something to happen. It almost seems to be challenging him, taunting… daring. Saying  _ go on, do something. Move a little closer. Reach out to him. I know you want to.  _

 

He doesn’t want to listen to it, it’s not  _ saying _ anything but he doesn’t want to listen. He needs to disconnect from all of his thoughts and everything around him, which was what he always did. He always detaches himself so he’s left feeling nothing, because for him— feeling nothing is better than feeling something and facing the consequences. He stares at the ambiguous shape, floating backwards and forwards lightly as small gusts of wind come by. Only the moonlight illuminates the hideaway room, a light glow so he can only make out certain shapes. The shared pile of clothes on the floor— socks, shirts and underwear— empty bottles, paperback copies of treasured books, tangled earphones, and if he turns around… someone he doesn’t want to think about. 

 

Adjusting his position, he wedges his forearm under the pillow and attempts to bury his head further into it. He makes sure he doesn’t smell it too much, because if he does, he’ll smell who’s behind him…  _ Everything always fucking smells of him. _ Not that it’s a bad thing, he just doesn’t want to be reminded. He realises that it’s pathetic, because in a few hours he’ll be kicking him in the ribs and tugging his hair, saying “ _ Wake up, potter! Rise and shine!”  _ but for now, the castaway boy is content basking in a bubble of silence and thoughts that have been pushed away. 

 

The wind picks up and the curtain ripples before slowly falling back into place, he stares at it until it hurts, because his glasses are on the bedside table and he can barely see a thing. He appreciates all of the white noise he’s enveloped in, it always does a good job of making his mind go to a state much like a television static. Perhaps if he just controls his breathing a little better, he’ll be able to fall into a peaceful sleep. He likes it better when he sleeps, because he doesn’t have to think, things are just dark and empty and he can escape reality for a little while. That is, if there are no nightmares. He doesn’t want to think about the nightmares, either. There are too many things that he doesn’t want to think about. 

 

He knows things would be a lot easier if everything just stopped. 

 

He always feels so close to that stopping moment, that ending, that closing off, ascending into blackness and oblivion where everything is just blank and empty. Sometimes he believes he would do anything to escape to that place, if it even existed, and he’s sure it does. Often, when he has those moments of escaping… he doesn’t feel like he’s in his own body, he feels like he’s watching himself from a distance, staring at a wall; he doesn’t feel himself. But that raises the question he doesn’t want to answer, because he has no idea who he is. Of course, he’s Theo Decker… Theodore Decker. But even he doesn’t understand who that is, and he ought to, better than anyone. 

 

He feels like the room is closing in on him like a garbage compactor, his chest feels tight and everything is getting smaller and smaller. Suddenly the concept of sleep seems foreign to him and he has lost all ability to forget, he’s thinking too much, and thinking makes him want to reach out. He wants to reach out before the walls crush him into dust, but he feels like he can’t move, frozen in place like a damaged video tape. He begs the static feeling to take over, calls for it, yells in his mind until his throat feels raw — but no sound is heard. Just the wind, and breathing… two heartbeats syncing.  _ Breathe in, out, in, out, in- _

 

And that’s when he feels it. 

 

He feels it, and his breath hitches in his throat; a wave of chills travelling down his whole body. He feels a cold fingertip come into contact with his bare back, and he tries not to visibly react to it, pretending he is still in some kind of peaceful sleep. Suddenly it’s the only thing he can feel, and it’s the only thing that matters, because the walls stop closing in and the curtain is no longer a ghost. It’s not the static feeling, no… it’s more like a content feeling, and he wishes that he could get it some other way. 

 

The boy behind him had turned to face his back, and focused on tracing patterns on his skin, up and down his spine slowly like a delicate pencil on paper. Theo closes his eyes and focuses on the contact, making him feel human again, holding him down to reality. It’s like he instinctively wakes up to comfort him whenever he can’t sleep, he never says anything about it… neither of them do. Usually he just wakes up whenever Theo does like he knows something is wrong, but he’s never done this before. This is something new, and he can only imagine how long he’s been staring at his turned back debating whether or not to do it. It's then Theo realises how much he needs him to feel sane. 

 

This continues for an amount of time he can’t read, the clock with the glowing green numbers is facing the other way and if he turns it around he’ll blow his cover. He guesses his fellow castaway, partner in crime, best friend… whatever you want to call it, is aware he’s awake, but Theo feels the need to keep up the facade a little longer; like it’s a comfort blanket. 

 

He tries to build up the courage to release his voice, to say something. He opens and closes his mouth multiple times, breathes in as if he were about to say something… but nothing comes out. He hates how he never says anything, so he pulls some strength out of nowhere, still getting lost in the invisible touches and patterns.

 

His voice is quiet, but not a whisper. “Boris?” 

 

The pattern stops abruptly, somewhere halfway down his back, and he feels goosebumps everywhere despite how warm the night is. Everything pauses for a moment, like someone pulled the earphones out of his iPod halfway through listening to a song by The Velvet Underground, and he feels like he just might melt through the mattress. 

 

He hears the boy suck in a breath. “Potter—” He stops himself, and clears his throat. His voice is scratchy with sleep and his accent seems almost stronger than usual. “Theo, is this okay?”

 

_ It’s more than okay, it’s always okay. _

 

There’s something that gets to Theo about Boris changing his mind, deciding against the nickname and using his actual name. He doesn’t know why, it’s strange to hear, but it’s also comforting. Like, maybe Boris is one of the few people who truly knows him. 

 

“Yeah…” Theo keeps his eyes fixed on the window again. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

 

He must move closer, because Theo feels the mattress shift slightly, and he has a moment where he thinks he might drape his arm over him and hold him — but he just continues to draw the patterns, and in a way, he’s relieved.

 

“You never remember times like this.” Boris says, his finger reaching the nape of Theo’s neck, he begins to twirl the ends of his hair in between his fingers and Theo feels his eyes begging to droop shut. 

 

He frowns, not recalling any other time like this specifically, but then he realises it’s highly likely that he’s forgotten. He remembers some of the nights, though. The ones he remembers, he never stops thinking about, and he’ll never forget. “Like— like what?” 

 

Boris sighs as if he doesn’t want to have to say it out loud. “You  _ know _ what, Potter.” 

 

He’s right, of course, because Theo knows exactly what he’s talking about. He’s talking about the nights where he’d would wake up crying from a nightmare, the times where Boris would have to hold him in his arms tightly and let him sob into his chest. He’s talking about the nights where Theo would grab onto him in his sleep, or maybe not in his sleep, and say  _ please don’t leave me  _ whilst gripping the fabric of his best friend’s shirt and then going limp when he became too exhausted to cry anymore. He’s talking about the nights neither of them liked to talk about, the silent mornings, acting like everything was normal, the curtain in the corner saying  _ nothing ever happened, never speak of it again.  _ He’s talking about nights like this, the nights that make them realise they need each other more than anything; and yet, all of it is unspoken. 

 

They both wish it wasn’t. 

 

Theo swallows the lump that had risen in his throat. “Just because I don’t talk about them doesn’t mean I don’t remember.” 

 

Boris shifts again, ever so slightly. He’s quiet for a while before he speaks again, like he’s debating saying something he could regret. “Does it feel the same for you?” 

 

“What?” 

 

Theo wants to turn around and look at his face, he wants to look at every inch of it, memorise it like his life depends on it. He wants to trace the angles with his fingertips, but all he can bring himself to do is to listen to the sound of his voice from behind. 

 

“Does it—” Boris walks two of his fingers along his arm now, all the way down, nearing his hand… but then turning back around. “Does it feel like it is right? Like, normal.” 

 

Theo can’t remember the last time Boris seemed so skeptical about something. It’s at this, that he forces himself to slowly turn over, and when he does, Boris brings his hand back like he’s been doing something he shouldn’t have. Theo props himself up on his hand, and when he notices how close the boy is to him, suddenly he’s wide awake. Boris is also propped up on his arm, looking at Theo through his dark eyelashes and the few curls of hair that fall in front of his face. Even in the dark, his sunkissed and freckled cheeks can be seen as clear as day. 

 

“It’s always felt normal, Boris.” 

 

He’s not sure what it means, but it slips out anyway, and despite the confusion of it all; everything between them starts to make sense. It had always been normal for them to act like this, and Theo had spent sleepless nights trying to put a label on what they were, just to make himself feel comfortable with it — yet  _ in love _ always felt like a step too far, and  _ best friends  _ just wasn’t enough. In fact, at this point, he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what it could be, if they really tried to push themselves out of their area of comfort — but the thought of it is too terrifying for either of them to comprehend. And Theo can’t face the idea of another person he loves leaving him, because he knows it will happen eventually. It always does. 

 

Boris appears to be thinking about Theo’s words for a while, picking them apart, dissecting them; trying to find a meaning somewhere but it’s something he can’t place his finger on. He’s never like that, he always knows what to say — Theo is the one who chokes on his words and doesn’t know how to explain things. But this time, Boris looks like he’s got his words caught in his throat and he’s finding it hard to breathe. Theo wants to reach out to him now, trace patterns over his arm to calm him down, but he’s too scared. He’s always too  _ fucking  _ afraid. 

 

Boris shifts again then, this time sitting up and crossing his legs, peering down at Theo whose eyes follow him like a stranded child. He crosses his arms across his chest, almost nervously, very unlike Boris. “Doesn’t that fuckin’—” He looks away, but soon enough he looks back. “Scare you?” 

 

This is definitely a side of Boris that Theo hasn’t seen before, or at least, he doesn’t remember seeing it before. He starts to hear the wind picking up again, and if he turned around he’d see the curtain floating about, continuing to taunt him and feed into his mind like some sort of virus. But he’s not facing the window, he’s facing boris — looking up at him — and  _ god  _ does he look beautiful in the moonlight. 

 

When Theo doesn’t answer for a few moments, Boris pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes shut and then shakes his head. “Ah, fuck. That’s stupid. Ignore what nonsense I’m saying, Potter. At this point I act more high when I’m not even  _ on  _ any drugs—” 

 

“No, wait—” Theo cuts him off by sitting up too, mirroring his position and crossing his legs, a little neater, though. “I understand.” 

 

Boris frowns. “How do you understand?” 

 

“Because it fucking terrifies me.” Theo blurts out, almost speaking too loud. If the dog was in the room, then he would’ve woken up and started jumping on the bed, barking in both of the boys’ faces. He goes quiet then, his voice only audible if you are as close as Boris is. “But I don’t want it to go away.” 

 

He’s sure this is the most honest he’s ever been, but inevitably, this will all be forgotten in the morning. Whatever happens will be pushed to the back of their minds with as much strength as possible, and they’ll move on like it was all some sort of dream. They’ll wake up side by side and start joking with each other like things are normal, they’ll start drinking, smoking, wasting away… and they won’t talk about it; because the curtain in the corner will never come down and the ghost will always remain. In truth, and both of them know this truth, they’re only ever honest with their feelings in the night — and sometimes they beg the earth to stop turning so the sun will never rise. 

 

“I don’t either.” Boris sighs, his tense shoulders slumping. Theo keeps his eyes fixed on his his hand that’s inching towards his own, bruised knuckles enhanced by the moonlight. He remembers a time in the park, where he’d punched Boris for saying something stupid, and some sort of static moment happened between them. Boris had held onto Theo’s bloody hand and pressed his knuckles to his bloody mouth, and Theo can still remember the feeling of his lips on his skin. The two of them, bound by blood, side by side… yet unable to find the words to make things right. 

 

When the bruised knuckles reach Theo’s hand, he just watches as their skin once again comes into contact. He feels those same chills travel all the way up his arm and over his whole body, and the warning feeling you get all over your face when you’re about to burst into tears. He doesn’t, because Boris’ face is so close to his own and when he looks up he can feel his uneasy breath on his skin, the look on his face saying  _ do you trust me?  _

 

Theo can’t hear the wind anymore, it’s been drowned out by something else. Not the static, not the screaming in his head… more like a silence in which he can hear everything. The safest silence he’s ever been lost in, a silence that makes his heart want to leap out of his chest. Boris brings his other hand up to the left side of Theo’s face, very slowly, and holds it. His thumb brushing the skin just under his eye and an instant, it happens like a memory. 

 

Boris only has to lean forward very slightly to catch Theo’s lips with his own, and the ability to breathe is suddenly a distant memory. Theo knows first kisses are typically clumsy and all over the place — but why is this happening like it’s happened a million times before? Their lips move together like those of a couple who haven’t shared a kiss in months, longing and lost, deep in the depths of confusion but also knowing. 

 

Maybe it feels like it’s happened before because this isn’t the only night they’ve ever needed each other. 

 

Theo can feel Boris move his hand to his hair, softly moving his fingers through it like he would often do to calm him down from a nightmare. Theo doesn’t really know what to do other than kiss him back, because it’s what he  _ wants  _ and it’s what he’s wanted for a long time. He can’t even taste remains of any substances on Boris’ lips, so he knows he means what he was doing. It’s not a drunken mistake. They’re not just high and desperate for some attention — this time is different. 

 

When they can’t breathe anymore, they pull back and look at each other with their innocent eyes, which say a lot more words than either of them can bear to say out loud. But somehow, it’s enough in that moment. When they wake up, it will be a different story. 

 

Boris holds his arm out for Theo to lean into, and speaks sleepily. “Come on.” 

 

Theo sighs, still feeling dizzy after the feeling of the kiss — the kiss that felt more right than anything he’d ever felt before. He easily leans into Boris’ side and the both of them lean back onto the bed, Theo snuggling his head into his chest and holding his arm over his stomach, their hands still connected. But in the morning, as always, they’ll be on opposite sides of the bed with their backs turned, trying to convince themselves that everything that occured in the dark hours was simply a dream. 

 

“Boris?” Theo whispers.

 

He feels the vibration of his voice on the side of his face. “Yeah?”

 

Theo almost says it, and Boris thinks he might find the strength to say it, but the words get lost. Like they always do. “Goodnight.” 

 

“Night, Theo.”

 

 

_ I would say I love you, but saying it out loud is hard. _

 

**_So I won't say it at all._ **

**Author's Note:**

> more boreo lads!! the lack of content makes me force myself to create my own so here we are, i hope it's readable. i kinda spaced out whilst writing this so i'm not sure if it's even coherent BUT yeah anyways. 
> 
> this is based on the song "futile devices" by sufjan stevens so go and give it a listen (it's the lyrics at the start and the end). i also listened to amsterdam by nothing but thieves like on repeat for a while whist writing this because of the major boris and theo vibes it radiates. send help. seriously.


End file.
